


Tell Me Your Story

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baltimore Orioles, Detroit Tigers, Gen, M/M, New York Yankees, Run-On Sentences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-07
Updated: 2005-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The new kid is tall and skinny; his arms are too long and his hands are too big for his body.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Your Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayrdaomei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayrdaomei/gifts).



> Written for a meme request. [This](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/benched/7462520/625/625_original.jpg) is Jason Johnson. 
> 
> Originally posted on LJ.
> 
> Title from "Misfit," by Elefant.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

(tell me your story)

The new kid is tall and skinny; his arms are too long and his hands are too big for his body. His face is too thin for a kid that young and his mouth is too full. The kid is 6'6 and listed in the media guide as 245 pounds, although it's more likely that he's 220. He shakes hands with everyone he meets at Spring Training, and stammers a bit, like this is the first time he's ever seen real live big leaguers.

"J-Jason Johnson," he says, and Mussina is surprised at how soft-spoken and willowy he is; you'd think his grip would be hermetically tight, judging from the size of his hands.

"Mike Mussina," Mussina says, returning Johnson's handshake. "You're the new kid, huh?"

"I guess so," Johnson says. "Everything's so different here. PIttsburgh and Tampa -- it wasn't like it is here."

"That's because we know how to win," says Mussina, even though he wasn't on the team when the Orioles were World Champions; practically no one on this team was even _alive_ when the Orioles were World Champions. Mussina is just young enough to be cocky and just old enough to know better. 

Johnson surveys the gleaming rows of new teammates doing wind sprints along the warning track, guys shagging balls in the infield grass, thick grass up to their ankles, guys throwing long toss way out in left field. 

Mussina watches him watching the teammates, his thumbs hooked into his beltloops. "So, what's your story?"

"Undrafted free agent," the kid says, his tone still soft and deferential, long, thin arms crossed over his nylon Spring Training-issue jersey. "Spent five years in Pittsburgh's minor league system . . . But you don't want to hear about this."

"Why not?" Mussina asks.

"Because it's a boring story," Johnson says, tilting his head to one side, regarding Mussina with a curious expression, his mouth pulled into a funny little Mona Lisa smile, sunlight illuminating him from behind like he's in flames, the tips of his ears glowing red. "It's the same old story."

Mussina shrugs. "I'm into it."

\--

(and i kept on driving)

The car door's open and Mussina's half in and half out of it, his hands on Johnson's shoulders, but Johnson's sitting as rigid as a man carved out of granite, his eyes closed, his hands locked into fists around the steering wheel. Industrial rain, thick as oil, is coming down in sheets, slicking itself down the windshield, dripping into the open car door, and Johnson's left arm is soaked wet now.

"Get out of the car, Jason," Mussina says, his hands still on Johnson's shoulders.

Johnson shakes his head. "I'm going home."

"You're not going to do this to me," Mussina hisses, reaching out, squeezing Johnson's jaw in his hand, forcing Johnson to look at him. "You're going to get out of this car and we're going to finish talking about this like a couple of grown men."

Johnson pulls away from Mussina's hand. "There's nothing left to talk about. You made up your mind." Mussina is resting his arm on top of the car, the greasy rain flattening his hair to his forehead, the fingers of his left hand curled into his knucklecurve grip. 

"Don't act like this," Mussina says, taking a step back, reaching up to press his palms against his eyes, stinging from the oily rain.

Johnson starts up his car and pulls the door shut. "We've done all the talking we need to do." Johnson pulls away and Mussina can no longer see, blinded by the rain.

\--

(i will start again)

Mussina and his Yankees come into Detroit and he's matched up against Johnson and his Tigers, the first time Mussina's ever pitched in Comerica Park, and he watches Johnson the top half of the first with an artist's attention to detail, takes note of the fastballs pounding inside, the sinkers down and out of the zone, high looping curveballs, and then Johnson throws this ungodly breaking pitch that completely, totally falls off the table, runs the batter out of the batter's box, something Mussina knows he could throw in his sleep, and Mussina realizes that his heart isn't the only thing of his that Johnson took.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
